Twice in a Lifetime (14 page)

“Sure, although my mom’s truck is usually more work than fun.” Drake noticed that Tommy’s arms shook slightly from the strain of holding the door steady and that he was starting to sweat. “Naomi’s dad just bought a brand-new Studebaker and she’s gonna try to talk him into letting us take it for a spin.”

“Is Naomi your gal?”

To Drake, the question was as innocent as a newborn babe; he vaguely remembered Clara mentioning the name and figured that asking about her might be a way to extend their conversation, for them to bond a bit. Tommy’s reaction said otherwise; it was as harsh as it was swift.

“Like you don’t know,” the boy snapped, his voice trembling more than his arms. “I can only imagine what my mother’s told you about her.”

“Tommy, listen, I don’t—”

“She’s just jealous! She doesn’t care if I’m happy! I don’t want to hear it from her, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna take it from you!”

Without warning, Tommy let go of the garage door; unfortunately for Drake, he hadn’t yet replaced enough of the screws and the weight of the door yanked them all out again. Everything crashed to the ground with a jarring bang. Before Drake could say anything, Tommy was already stalking off; when he reached the house, he slammed the door shut behind him. Drake was still watching, feeling a little stunned, when the first drops of rain began to fall.

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. Unknowingly, he had lit the boy’s fuse, and like a firecracker, Tommy had exploded.

Nice first impression…

A
MOS
B
ARSTOW
was conflicted.

He paced. He mumbled angrily. He sat down on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He went to stand at the window, nervously looking up and down the street, wondering when he would see Drake returning, worrying that he might find Sweet and his boys, frightened that the drug dealer had finally tracked him down. He paced some more.

“How in the hell did I end up in this mess?” he asked himself.

But Amos already knew the answer.

He was an addict. He was a thief.

And now, as he stared longingly at Drake’s duffel bag, leaned in the corner, he wondered how much longer he could call himself a friend.

Yesterday, after Drake’s unexpected defeat, Amos had tried to lose his mounting worries in what remained of his morphine. No sooner had Drake left, no doubt to visit that widow who’d caught his eye, than Amos had escaped to a better place. For hours, he had rested peacefully, turning events over and over again in his head. But in the end, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about one thing in particular.

The money for the bet Drake was proposing.

Amos was broke; all his cash, what was left of his winnings along with what he’d stolen from Sweet, had been lost in Drake’s disastrous defeat. Amos had considered it a safe wager; unfortunately, it had been anything but. Still, the solution Drake had offered to their troubles sounded good, but only if they actually had the money to throw into the pot. Drake claimed to have it, which left Amos with one very important question in need of an answer.

Where is he hiding it?

Rising groggily, trying to shake off the effects of the morphine, Amos had searched the hotel room. He pulled open drawers, pawed through the closet, dropped to the floor to peer under each bed, and had even lifted the mattresses, desperate to find Drake’s hidden money. Once he was certain it wasn’t to be found inside, he’d gone out to rummage inside the Plymouth’s trailer.

But still, he’d found nothing.

Back in the room, sweaty and growing frustrated, the answer had suddenly struck Amos like a ton of bricks: it was in Drake’s duffel bag. Unfortunately, the bag was nowhere to be seen; it must still be in the Plymouth. He’d waited and waited until finally, later that night, Drake returned with it slung over his shoulder. Every moment since, Amos had struggled not to stare at it.

Now Drake was gone and the bag was right there…

Still, Amos hesitated. Even though he’d done his share of despicable things lately, he knew that rooting around in Drake’s belongings would be crossing a line. Drake was like family. They’d been through thick and thin, racing together more times than Amos could count. Drake trusted him. Amos knew that the racer would give him the shirt off his back if asked. But the longer the mechanic stared at the bag, the more he tried to justify taking a look.

You aren’t going to take the money. All you’re gonna do is see if it’s there, nothin’ more. This way, you’ll know for certain.

He locked the door and closed the curtains; the idea of someone witnessing his betrayal made him nauseous. Grabbing the duffel bag, he put it on his bed. Seconds later, he dug in, working his way down past Drake’s clothes and the paperback books he was always reading until he was nearly to the bottom. And then, just like that, there it was…

Money. Lots of it. Wads of cash rubber-banded together.

Amos didn’t remove any of the bills; he wondered if it was because he didn’t want to disturb them too much and make Drake suspect his things had been ransacked, or because he feared he would take off with it right then and there. Instead, he rubbed the bills between his thumb and forefinger, counting them; he soon arrived at a number that sent chills racing across his skin.

He couldn’t believe Drake had so much. Amos knew that if he took it, he could run for months, go somewhere far to the west, escape his pursuers, and buy whatever drugs he wanted. Most if not all of his worries would be gone.

Slowly, Amos put back the money, straightened Drake’s things, and then placed the duffel bag back in the corner. No matter how badly he needed the money, regardless of how frightened he was that Sweet Woods would catch up to him, and ignoring the fact that he was running low on morphine, he just couldn’t do it to Drake. He wouldn’t steal from his friend.

At least not yet…

Eddie Fuller was drunk.

He swirled the scotch in his glass, spinning it faster and faster until a tiny wave sloshed over the lip, wet his thumb, and then fell to the floor, where it stained an antique rug his father had imported from Egypt.

“What a waste,” he muttered.

The grandfather clock in his study chimed three times. Outside, the afternoon was overcast, with occasional fits of rain. Most days, at that hour, he would’ve been sitting behind his desk at the bank, going over reports, making telephone calls, doing all the things that were his responsibility as the man in charge.

But not today. Not after what had happened…

Frustration, anger, and even, if he was being completely honest with himself, a little fear coursed through him. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

How had everything gone so wrong?

He’d given Clara some time to think about the pampered future he was proposing to her. While he was disappointed she hadn’t immediately accepted, later, he understood that she had others to think about besides herself. Still, he’d felt certain that with some space and a few days to work it out, she’d see that becoming Mrs. Edward Fuller was the only logical choice she could make.

Besides, she knew what would happen if she decided otherwise…

With that in mind, Eddie had begun making plans for his courtship. They were every bit as romantic as they were meticulous. When it came time to close the bank for the day, he would send the other employees home, ensuring that he and Clara could be alone. Stashed in his office were candles, a bouquet of red roses, an extremely expensive bottle of wine, and even a radio to provide just the right ambiance. Everything had been in place. It was perfect.

But then, unexpectedly, it had all gone terribly wrong.

Eddie drained the last inch of alcohol, barely noticing it burn its way down his throat. Before the booze had time to settle in his stomach, he was already pouring himself more. He was growing pleasantly used to the way alcohol clouded his thoughts. Now he understood why his father had kept so much of it around. But on this night, no matter how hard he tried to drown his troubles, they kept bubbling back to the surface. Over and over, the same question rose in Eddie’s mind, teasing him, tormenting him.

Who was that man?

At first, he had assumed that the stranger’s interruption was an accident, that he’d wanted to use the bank but had shown up too late. But as the man continued to pound on the door, ignoring Eddie’s shouts that they were closed, his eyes never left Clara; it soon became obvious that his arrival wasn’t mere happenstance. The stranger’s growing insistence to get inside was because of
her
. Clara had been relieved to see
him
.

The most humiliating thing was that Eddie had been frightened; when the stranger barged inside the bank, Eddie had wanted to stop them from leaving, but when the man spoke, his voice a threatening growl, Eddie had backed down. Even though he was rich, one of the most important and powerful men in Sunset, at that moment he’d been a coward. A mixture of shame and fear had kept him holed up in his house ever since, alone, drinking the hours away, far from Clara Sinclair.

But he couldn’t stay hidden forever.

No matter what it took, he would learn the identity of the stranger, where he came from, and how he and Clara knew each other. Yesterday, Eddie had assumed that it would only be a matter of time before he and Clara were happily married. But now, things had changed. Doubt had crept into his thoughts. His heart overflowed with love for her, but now he wondered if she would ever give him the chance to show it to her, at least voluntarily. Something had to be done.

He had to make the stranger go away, and soon.

Eddie tossed back his drink, winced as he swallowed hard, and banged the empty glass down on his desk. He took a deep breath.

It was time to get to work.

Naomi Marsh was bored.

All afternoon, she’d sat at the window of her father’s bar, absently watching the sky turn gray and then finally let loose, rain drumming against the glass. The Marshland was almost empty; other than Wilbur, drying glasses with a dirty rag while taking nips from a bottle of whiskey, there were only a handful of Sunset’s most depressing and desperate, the sort of drunks who had nowhere else to be on a weekday afternoon, the kind of people on the road to ruin.

So what does that say about me? If I’m sitting here with them, doesn’t that make me every bit as pathetic?

Naomi shook her head. She was nothing like those people. She had prospects, a future far away from this place. Someday soon she would leave and never return.

To further distract herself, Naomi thought of Tommy. She’d even begun to entertain the thought that she was being too harsh with the boy, that instead of teasing him, making promises of her flesh that never seemed to come true, she should just give him a taste. After all, the only reason she hadn’t slept with him yet was because of the thrill of power it gave her, like having a dog on a leash. But sex could be plenty thrilling, too. If she gave in, they could both have a little fun.

But then Tommy had shown up madder than a hornet.

“Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?”

He paced back and forth, frowning as the floorboards creaked loudly beneath his feet. They had left the bar in favor of the apartment Naomi shared with her father, directly across the street from the bar; with her old man tending to his customers, they wouldn’t be bothered for hours. Naomi had brought Tommy there before but had never let him into her room, and had certainly never let him see her sprawled out on her bed, inviting, willing…

Not that he seemed to care…

“What are you talking about?” she asked, growing annoyed.

“The guy who knows my mom. The one with the car,” he snapped, showing some annoyance of his own, angry that she hadn’t been listening.

“Which car?”

Faintly, Naomi remembered Tommy mentioning this already, but she couldn’t recall any of the details. While he rambled on, she’d been busy running her fingers along the inside of his leg, tracing the seam of his jeans; she’d been stunned when he took her hand away so he could get up and pace.

“I don’t know what make it is,” he answered. “An Oldsmobile, maybe. He races it for a living. Goes around making bets.”

Naomi sat up on the edge of the bed and made a show of slowly rebuttoning the front of her blouse, which she’d unbuttoned soon after they arrived.

“Why was he at your house?” she asked.

“Because my mother told him that he could use our garage.”

“But your garage is broken.”

“He wanted me to help him fix it,” Tommy said.

“So did you?”

He nodded. “He was fine for a while. We talked about his car, how fast it went, but then he started in about you…”

Naomi stopped what she was doing; what he’d said had finally grabbed her attention. “What did he say?”

“I don’t remember…not exactly,” Tommy answered, pacing faster, growing more worked up by the second.

“How would he know anything about me?”

“From my mom, no doubt, so you know that what he heard wasn’t good.”

“So then what did you do?”

“I took off,” Tommy told her. “I’d been holding the garage door so I let it go. Probably broke it worse than it already was, but I couldn’t care less.”

But once again, Naomi wasn’t paying attention. Her mind churned as she considered the opportunity that had unexpectedly presented itself. This was a chance to have some
real
fun, one that might prove more entertaining than messing around with a boy pretending to be a man.

“What did you say this guy’s name was?” she asked.

“Drake McCoy,” he answered.

As Tommy went back to ranting, Naomi couldn’t help but smile. In a town as small as Sunset, it wouldn’t be hard for her to learn more about the driver, particularly where he was staying. All she needed was for them to have an “accidental” meeting, for him to get a good look at a young, beautiful woman like her, and then Drake McCoy would be hers. The thought of sticking it to Clara Sinclair, and even to her son, just because she could, was too enticing to ignore.

Maybe she would have some fun after all…

Ronald “Sweet” Woods was tired.

For days, they had driven up and down dirt roads, passed through sleepy towns, pushed open the doors of roadside markets and seedy taverns, rousted drunks and regular folks who weren’t looking for any trouble, all in the increasingly futile hope of finding some sign of Amos Barstow or the money and drugs he’d stolen. So far, they’d come up empty.

“How much further do you intend to take this?”

Sweet glanced up. Jesse Church yawned into the back of his hand. Malcolm Child stood a ways off, lighting a cigarette; the match illuminated the night for a second before he shook it out. High above, a thin moon shone dully.

“As long as it takes,” Sweet answered.

“This keeps up, we might still be lookin’ come Christmas.”

Sweet unwrapped a candy and popped it into his mouth, as much to keep himself from losing his temper as to satisfy a desire for sugar.

The Cadillac was parked at a crossroads smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Many long miles had passed since they’d last seen a house. Crickets sang their unending melody in the tall grass. Sweet had spread their well-worn map across the car’s hood as he tried to figure out where they were, as well as where they might go next. After that first successful sighting, they had branched out in different directions, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel, looking to stay on Barstow’s trail. Unfortunately, every path had so far ended in failure. Now only a couple of options remained. They were close, Sweet was sure of it. It was no time to quit.